


What Happens At The Medusa Cascade Stays At The Medusa Cascade

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Prompt Fills [60]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Flirting, Light Angst, M/M, Past Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25732840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: At the Medusa Cascade, the Doctor has allowed the Master a rare day out - a chance to see something of the universe, rather than the inside of the TARDIS. All seems to be going well, until they bump into someone else with a similar idea...
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan), Twelfth Doctor/Missy
Series: Prompt Fills [60]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/585397
Comments: 28
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From ameliafromafairytale's prompt:
> 
> _The current Doctor and Master (or Missy) running into the past versions of themselves at the Medusa Cascade; maybe angst, Definitely Gay._

The Doctor is not entirely sure why she’s here, if she’s honest. Not that she can complain; the Medusa Cascade is, as ever, impossibly beautiful, and as she stands on the viewing deck of the observation station specifically built for the purpose of showing the view off, she’s reminded of that for the thousandth time; the flame-bright orange and sea-green turquoise of the Cascade rippling across the sky in front of her, as far as the eye can see. Surrounded by whirling vortices of stars, there’s an undeniable beauty in it all, marred only slightly by-

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice asks from her right, wistful and teasing all at once. “Let’s blow it up.”

She lets out a long, exasperated sigh and rests her forehead against the reinforced glass, closing her eyes and counting slowly to five before asking through gritted teeth: “Why do you always have to do this?”

“Instinct. Plus, it’s sort of my MO, you know.”

She turns her head towards the speaker, opens her eyes and scowls heartily as the Master arranges his hands on his hips, striking a jaunty pose and tipping her a wink once he’s sure he has her full attention. “Instinct?” she asks with bemusement, ignoring his carefully-choreographed theatrics. She’s determined not to indulge him by rising to the bait. “You think that your desperate urge to ruin things is instinct?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, slumping against the glass and folding his arms nonchalantly as some of the bravado melts out of him, replaced with something akin to resignation; as though it’s absolutely normal to feel the way he does; as though it’s an irrefutable fact that can’t possibly be changed. They both know the fallacy there, and yet neither of them are mentioning it; the two of them tiptoeing around the issue delicately, both determined not to broach the subject. “Your instinct is to run in and save planets and star systems and even that backwards, silly little planet called Earth; to appreciate the beauty of the universe; to hold hands with and make friends with the natives, even when they turn out to be cannibalistic or murderous heathens; all that jazz. And mine is… well, mass destruction. Call it a character trait. Personally, I think my way is more fun. Lots more fireworks.”

“You think destroying all of this would be fun?”

“Of course it would be. Think of the chaos… the terror… the devastation… think how beautiful the Cascade would look ripped open, bleeding into the surrounding nebulae…”

“What good would it do?” the Doctor demands to know, loathing herself for the bitterness that undercuts her words and fighting to make her next question more neutral. “What point is there in chaos?”

“It would make me…” he grins manically, and the Doctor isn’t sure whether he’s repressing his conscience, or if he simply doesn’t have one. “So, _so_ happy.”

She turns away from him in disgust, unable to even form the words to express her contempt for his worldview. There is no sense or beauty in destruction; no compassion or kindness to be found in genocide or obliteration. There is no point or arbitrary end goal in his attitude to the universe; he simply gleans joy from anarchy in the same way that she finds happiness in heroism and positivity. Opposite ends of the spectrum; two different sides of the same coin. The lightness and the dark; the last two Time Lords in the universe, and the exact antithesis of each other. It keeps her awake at night, knowing she can never let him go free, and yet keeping him with her is driving her slowly mad; this is not the first time she’s kept one of his incarnations shackled in captivity, but this time is infinitely more jarring than the last.

“Why did you bring me here?” the Master asks suddenly, his hands straying to his wrists, and the Doctor reflexively tenses up, but his fingertips only graze over the psychic cuffs concealed under his luridly-hued jacket sleeves. There’s no slyness in his gaze; no urge to push the boundaries; no fire in his tone; if anything, he sounds sadder and more reserved than she’s heard him be in… well, centuries. She’s unsure whether this is progress, or whether she ought to be suspicious; she opts for suspicion. Better safe than sorry. “Was it to gloat?” 

“No.”

“So, why?”

“I wanted you to have…” she pauses, trying to find the right words to explain herself. “I wanted you to have something nice to do and to see. And I wanted to see whether you could try to look at things from my point of view; to see the good in them, and the beauty. But I was wrong. I suppose that it’s still too soon for you.”

“You know, don’t you, that I’m not her?” the Master’s voice is quiet and tinged with something approaching sadness. They both know to whom he’s referring; both know that she’s entirely gone from his psyche, much to the Doctor’s considerable pain and chagrin. This is the first time he’s mentioned his previous self; the first time he’s risked alluding to it. The Doctor wonders idly what’s changed; what’s made him admit to ever having been the woman who had cried in the Doctor’s arms as she’d wondered how to redeem herself. He’s spent months in denial; now, it seems, he is willing to accept his past, if not to learn from it. “I’m not the person you kept in a vault for all those decades; the person who learned to be good.”

“No,” the Doctor let out a long breath, turning away from him and willing herself not to cry at the thought of Missy. All those years; all that progress. All the changes she had seen in her oldest friend. All of it for nothing. “I know that.”

“All your efforts… they’re gone,” the Master continues, his tone still gentle but with an undercurrent of malice, and she refuses to look at him as his tone becomes wheedling, niggling and nasty. “I’m not that person anymore, and I’m certainly not good or kind or remorseful.”

“You can protest that all you like,” the Doctor says wearily, keeping her tone as flat as she can manage in response to his sly attempts at provocation. “And yet… you haven’t tried to kill me – or anyone. You haven’t tried to escape, or destroy anything.”

“Yet.”

“Don’t spoil the illusion, please,” she begs, clenching her fists at her sides and wishing, wishing, wishing she didn’t have to play this role; wishing, wishing, wishing that she was not responsible for keeping him in custody, safely away from the rest of the universe. Wishing things could be as they used to be, before everything changed forever. “Can we not just…”

“What?”

“I don’t know, pretend that this is like the old days?”

“No,” he says, his tone laced with bitterness and sorrow as his expression grows abruptly closed off. “Because it’s not.”

“I know that, I just…” she sighs and shakes her head, unable to elucidate exactly what she means and unwilling to try, lest he look at her with increasing disappointment and contempt. “Never mind.”

“I’m not going to be-”

“Well, this is nice, isn’t it?” a loud, chirpy female voice cuts in, and several aliens on the viewing deck turn towards the sound. The Doctor feels a chill of recognition pass through her, and a moment later Missy strides into view, clad in a particularly unbecoming shade of brown, although that isn’t what holds the Doctor’s attention; no, because behind Missy is her previous self, tall and stern and Scottish, and he’s looking around them in a manner that perfectly alerts her to the situation at hand. Her gaze strays down to Missy’s wrists, and sure enough, there’s the glint of vibranium protruding from the cuffs of her blouse, and in an instant the Doctor understands; half-comprehends and half-remembers, her memories from her previous regeneration hazy and unclear. Ah. Converging timestreams. Never good for the brain.

Missy looks over at her then, as though sensing someone’s gaze, but her eyes slide straight past the Doctor and to the Master, and the Doctor feels a sudden, swooping sense of panic about the two of them being in the same room at the same time, psychic cuffs or no psychic cuffs.

“Hello!” Missy says cheerfully, taking five ebullient steps forward and then yelping as her handcuffs kick in and a spasm shudders through her body. Beside the Doctor, the Master lets out an empathetic huff of pain, rubbing his wrists indignantly and shooting both Doctors a dark look. “Ow… Thete, stop being so _dense,_ will you? Look at him. Who, apart from you, has a tendency to dress quite so terribly. It’s patently clear that it’s you… come on, let me…”

The Previous Doctor, as the Doctor categorises her past self for convenience, scowls and looks over at the Master, who is doing his best to look contrite and approachable in a passable enough attempt at role-playing as her. Well. Passable enough to anyone other than her past self. “I’m not sure,” aforementioned past self muses, frowning as he looks the Master up and down. “Purple was never really my colour.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” the Master says with a winning smile, stepping forward with his hand out, turning the entire force of his charm on them both. The Doctor only rolls her eyes, wondering how far to let this little charade proceed and knowing she ought to intervene, but there’s something so intrinsically and selfishly enjoyable about watching him pretend to be good that she feels it would be wrong to impede on his antics now. “It suits us, doesn’t it? Has to be said, I do miss the height though. What I wouldn’t give to still be that imposing now. And the eyebrows! Goodness. I miss those furious little buggers.”

“Quite,” the Previous Doctor says uncomfortably, looking from Missy to the Master, and then over at the Doctor herself with restrained curiosity, frowning at the sight of her. “What are you doing here? And who’s your friend?”

“Her?” the Master wrinkles his nose, gesticulating vaguely and dismissively with his hand. “She’s not my friend, she just follows me around. Human scavenger; found her out in the Atarial System. Terribly choice in coats. Name of Isa Payne.”

“That’s funny,” the Previous Doctor says slowly, as the Doctor ignores the barb, mentally rolling her eyes. “Because she’s got two hearts.”

“Has she?” the Master widens his eyes, as though this is new information, and turning to her with a look of considerable exasperation, starting to chide her like a naughty child: “For Rassilon’s… Romana, I’ve told you about this. You can’t just keep following me around. It’s embarrassing. And disguising yourself…”

“Alright,” the Doctor interjects, stepping past him impatiently and cutting him off. “I think this little pantomime has gone on long enough. I’m the Doctor.”

The Previous Doctor’s eyes widen like saucers, and Missy lets out a yelp of glee.

“You’re kidding,” the Previous Doctor manages, somehow managing to look amazed and appalled all at once. “You’re… you’re me?”

“Is that such a bad thing?” the Doctor asks, disconcerted by his conflicted, somewhat agonised reaction. “Why do you look so…”“So?”

“Horrified?”

“I’m not,” he shakes his head at once, although the shock is still evident, and gestures past her to the Master with tangible uncertainty. “I’m just wondering… if you’re me, then who’s he?”

“Ah,” the Master says, striking a pose. “About that. Three guesses! Would you like clues? Clue one: the Doctor has really, really enjoyed keeping me in chains. I think she’s got a bit of a thing about it; clearly runs in the regenerations, doesn’t it?”

The Previous Doctor’s expression falls, as does Missy’s. The Doctor isn’t sure who looks more aghast; Missy certainly seems doom-struck as she puts two and two together.

“You can’t be,” the Previous Doctor shakes his head hard, sucking in a sharp breath. “You’re…”

“I’m a man again?” Missy explodes, her tone furious as she folds her arms, plants her feet and lets rip at the Previous Doctor, as though he might have control over such things. “That’s ridiculous. That’s bullshit. I want a refund. If you get to become a woman, Thete, why can’t I stay as one? This is sexism, this is; intergalactic Time Lord sexism. This is an adherence to the universal capitalist heteropatriarchy. Although I will begrudgingly say: at least I’m not white anymore. It was getting terribly dull, not to mention statistically unlikely.”

“Missy…” the Previous Doctor warns tiredly. “Don’t-”

“No, it’s not fair,” Missy whines. “All those centuries with both of us kicking around as blokes, I finally got upgraded to a woman, then you finally got the deluxe package as well – about time, dearie – and I got bumped back down to Testosterone Central, and I’m missing out on the chance to be gay and do crime? Absolute fallacy. Total bullshit. Two millennia as a bloke, I finally get a cracking pair of baps, and then I get them taken away? Bull. Shit. Is there only one pair to go around? Is that it? Only one Time Lady at a time may have tits? Because if so, I’ll be speaking to the manager.”

“We… I… that is… I…” the Previous Doctor stammers, his face turning maroon at the insinuations being made. “Missy… you…”

“Bless him, he’s always been so embarrassed when you allude to our night-time encounters, hasn’t he?” the Master chips in with a fond little pout. “It’s almost like he’s ashamed of them.”

The Doctor feels her own cheeks beginning to colour. “Well,” she tries to say magnanimously, looking between Missy and the Master as she counters: “You’re not my usual type…”

“That’s a lie and all four of us know it,” the Master snickers, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “I’ve been your type since before you even knew what your type _was_. I’ve been your type since before you even knew people _had_ types.”

“Genocidal maniacs aren’t-”

“Except I’m not a genocidal maniac, am I?” Missy murmurs softly, looking at the Doctor with such disarming innocence that it takes her a moment to realise that this is still the Master, and she’s still dangerous. “I’m your oldest friend… your first friend… your best enemy…”

“Don’t,” the Previous Doctor says warningly, snapping his fingers at her like she’s a particularly disobedient dog, and Missy looks at him with disdain. “Don’t; you don’t get to play that card.”

“Well, I’m just saying. You and me… it’s been going on for centuries, and yet when I finally get promoted to a body with all _sorts_ of yummy parts, I find out that you get the same, and then I _have to become a man again_. Do you know how disappointing that is?”

“I am here, you know,” the Master notes, holding onto his lapels and bristling visibly. “Right here. Really not enjoying the sexism coming from you.”

“Oh, shut your face,” Missy says with fond irritation. “You loved being me. You loved playing with th-”

“That’s quite enough of that,” the Previous Doctor cuts in, his face entirely crimson. “Missy, stop being sexist about your future self. My future self: why’s he in cuffs?”

“Because she’s kinkier than she looks,” the Master jumps in before the Doctor has the chance to speak, and she shoots him a dark look that he tactically ignores. “You should see her bedroom setup.”

“Do you want me to send you back to the TARDIS?” she growls under her breath. “Because that can be arranged.”

“What am I going to do, spank myself?” he snorts, and she bites down on her lip in a bid to avoid rising to the bait. That’s what he wants, and she won’t give in to it, tempting though it may be. “No, well know it’s more fun when you do it for me. And besides, there’s no guarantee I’m not going to nick your ship, is there?”

“Except you _know_ what will happen if you try, and I don’t reckon you much fancy that, do you?” the Doctor says sweetly. “Not least because it’ll hurt, and it’ll do so in a way that even you won’t you enjoy. So, shut up.”

“She’s attractive when she’s angry, isn’t she?” the Master asks, raising his eyebrows and tipping Missy a wink.

“Shut up,” the Doctor growls at him warningly, before explaining in a louder voice: “He did something unforgiveable.”

“And I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what?” the Previous Doctor asks, and she shakes her head with regret.

“Can’t. You know I can’t,” the Doctor runs a hand through her hair. “Why would you even ask?”

“Because he wants to push things,” Missy rolls her eyes. “You used to be him; you know what he’s like.”

“I remember, yeah,” the Doctor locks eyes with her past self; remembers how it felt to be him. Four and a half billion years of enduring hell to save the woman she loved; the agony of the memories she’d lost; the guilt linked to the friends whose deaths were her own fault; the exhaustion- and desperation-infused decades spent trying to make an enemy into a friend while maintaining the pretence of being ordinary. All the pain and anger and sadness that she’s spent so long pushing aside suddenly well up, threatening to overwhelm her, and she takes a short, sharp breath in, struggling to keep afloat in the tide of despair that’s now coursing through her veins. “I…”

Missy steps forwards then and takes her hands in her own, the touch surprisingly gentle.

“Let go of it,” Missy whispers, and the Doctor looks up at her and feels another overwhelming surge of sorrow. This woman – this redeemed, desperate woman – is going to become the man stood behind her; the man who will kill their people and commit genocide in the Doctor’s name. This woman, who she’d spent so long battling to save, is going to one day burn again with the anger of a thousand suns, and destroy everything they’ve ever known, everything and everyone they’ve ever loved. The juxtaposition of the tenderness of her touch and the agony of foreknowledge is almost too much to endure, but she grits her teeth and resolves not to flinch away; resolves not to let Missy know the hell which is to come. “You can’t hold onto it all forever. He’s gone. Let that pain go.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You do. And you must.”

“Why?”

“Because if not, you’ll become like him,” Missy inclines her head towards the Master, just a fraction, but enough for the Doctor to understand that Missy _knows_ ; Missy has read the room and understands exactly who and what she is going to become, and she loathes it precisely as much as the Doctor does. Or perhaps that’s simply wishful thinking. “And that can’t happen.”

The Doctor takes a deep, steadying breath and then exhales slowly, trying to envision her rage and grief leaving her body as though they’re physical things as she does so. She repeats the action until her hearts feel lighter, and it’s then she realises that Missy’s hands are still clasping hers.

“I really am sorry,” Missy murmurs, then smirks softly. “Not least about not getting to _have_ you.”

“That’s… that’s alright,” the Doctor mumbles, her cheeks flushing delicately. “Really.”

“And I’m sorry about this.”

“About wh-”

Missy’s hands move at lightning speed, clamping the psychic cuffs she had previously been wearing onto the Doctor’s wrists. The Master darts out from behind her and does the same to the Previous Doctor, who lets out an indignant shout of protest, before they’re both forced to their knees on the floor of the observation deck by a spasm of pain, fellow visitors gaping at them in confusion and concern.

“Well, kids,” the Master says triumphantly, standing over them with a leer and offering his arm to Missy with over-exaggerated gusto and pomp. “Have fun now. We’ll see what happens to the cuffs when… well, why spoil the surprise?”

Missy takes his arm and grins at them both, offering them a mock salute and blowing a kiss to the nearest gaping aliens. “Have fun, kids!”

And with that, they both vanish with a loud _pop_ , and the Doctor has enough time to wonder how they’ve got hold of a vortex manipulator before the pain begins.

Pain.

Pain.

Pain.

Someone swearing in Scottish.

And then… nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two Doctors try to formulate a plan... one that involves thinking like their mutual best enemy.

Clawing her way back to consciousness hurts. Her wrists are burning, and her head throbs with each thought she has, clouding her mind and making her doubt and second-guess who she might be. Doctor something? Doctor What? Doctor Who? Or just… no, just the Doctor. She thinks. She’s the Doctor, and she dimly recalls that she saves people. Or tries to, at any rate. She ought to include herself on that list, she thinks idly to herself.

“Who,” a Scottish voice mumbles beside her, pausing to swear almightily in Gallifreyan. “Gave them a sodding manipulator?”

“Don’t…” she begins, then sucks in a sharp breath as she realises that talking hurts almost as much as thinking, and listening hurts almost as much again. “Don’t look at me… it’s not like I carry them… ow… around.”

“Why was he in cuffs?”

“Can you… stop… talking?” she manages through gritted teeth, sucking in deep lungfuls of artificial oxygen as her body continues to scream in protest at Missy’s prolonged physical and psychic absence. “Because… ow.”

“ _Why was he-“_

“You _know_ I can’t tell you that,” she chances opening her eyes. Immediate regret lances through her; the dimmed lights of the observation deck assail her senses, and she screws her eyelids tightly shut again, lifting her hands and settling them over her eyes with a grimace of agony. “Spoilers.”

“Don’t you…” he snaps, then sighs heavily, struggling to keep his temper in check. “Where are they likely to have gone?”

“Not a clue. Think like an evil psychopath. What would you do?"

“My TARDIS or yours?”

“I’m sorry?” the Doctor asks in stupefaction, wondering whether she’s misunderstood the question.

“Which one are they likely to go for?!”

“Oh,” the Doctor opens her eyes again, cautiously and slowly, and this time it hurts less as she blinks hard, realising they’re still in a tangled heap on the floor. The assembled aliens have lost interest now that they’ve stopped screaming in agony, or whatever they’d done during their loss of consciousness, and have now drifted back to look out over the Cascade, pointing out aspects of the view and murmuring amongst themselves. “Yours? Probably? I don’t… I don’t know. Do you think they planned this?”

“They can’t have done. This was a totally randomised trip,” the Previous Doctor lets out a long, exasperated breath, running a hand through his hair shakily. “And I’m guessing yours was too. Is there any way they could’ve hypnotised us? Implanted the idea, or the seed of the idea? Confused the TARDIS; persuaded the navigation system?”

“No,” the Doctor shakes her head, remembering the Master’s protestations when she’d locked in the coordinates. “No, he hates the Medusa Cascade. He complained the entire way here-”

“Too much, or a normal amount?”

“A normal amount, which is to say, still a lot. He hates places like this, slow places, dull places; he’s made it abundantly clear that he can’t stand the normal or the ordinary, and he had no idea you were going to be here. How could he? The timestreams converging mean we won’t be able to remember this, so there’s no way he could have had the foreknowledge. Not unless they manage some hideous sort of overwriting of their collective memory, which is a bad idea for at least nineteen reasons. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty- you get my drift. The bloody idiot.”

“Good point,” the Previous Doctor huffs, poking experimentally at his own psychic cuffs, which are glowing red and making a faint hissing sound. “Are yours still on?”

“Unfortunately yes. They hurt, but that might be from the severance of the psychic link. What happens if they don’t come back? I don’t fancy regrowing two hands, or regenerating.”

“I don’t want to find out. Do you think you can stand?”

“Urm,” she lifts one leg experimentally; sets her foot on the floor; arranges herself into a vaguely more vertical manner and doesn’t immediately topple sideways. Small victories. She tries to rise to completely upright and staggers slightly, then clenches her fists and resolves to try again. “Yes. Give me a minute or two.”

“Good. We don’t have a minute or two, though,” he gets to his feet and then hauls her upright, and she sways for a few seconds before getting her balance, letting go of him as though she’s been burned. Physical contact with your past self can do all sorts of hideous things to the timestreams. “Lead the way to your TARDIS, then.”

“Why?”

“You think they’ll go for mine, remember? Which means yours is the only avenue open to us,” he rolls his eyes, then looks at her curiously. “Why mine, anyway?”

“More familiar. Easier to fly. Nostalgia, perhaps. It’s where she remembers being happy. Mine is… still new to him. He doesn’t know it as well. Doesn’t like the interior design, but well… people never do, do they? Not at first.”

“Ah,” he grimaces, but nods in agreement all the same. “Well, where’s yours?”

“Deck Three. Next to the coolant system control hub.”

“Well, lead the-”

There’s another loud _pop_ and Missy materialises in front of them, her skin an ashen shade of grey as she sways unsteadily before collapsing forward and into the Doctor’s outstretched arms. Beside her, the Previous Doctor swears under his breath, reaching for Missy’s hand and looking hurt when she yanks away from his touch with a hiss of complaint that’s so primal and animalistic that the Doctor feels a surge of panic as to what could have elicited such a reaction. Lowering her to the floor, the Doctor props her up on her lap, one arm settling around her waist protectively as the Previous Doctor extracts the sonic screwdriver – ah, how she misses the gold, white and green – from a pocket and starts experimentally scanning her.

“He’s insane,” Missy whispers, loud enough for only the Doctor to hear. Her voice is thready and weak, laced with a terror that chills the Doctor’s hearts, and her breathing is rapid and shallow. For Missy to be this frightened, something truly awful must have happened; something that the Doctor can’t and won’t begin to imagine. “He’s… he’s…”

“Get after him,” the Doctor says in a low, urgent voice to her previous self, knowing that Missy needs someone to take care of her and someone to go after the Master, and that those roles can only be delegated in this manner. “He needs to be caught; he needs to be stopped. I’ll stay with Missy.”

“But she… I’ll stay with her; you go after him. I don’t know him like you do, I don’t-”

“Exactly; you don’t have that bias; you don’t have that reserve. Me and him… it’s complicated, but you don’t have any of that. All you need to know is that whatever he’s done has destroyed Missy like this. Is that not enough of a reason to go after him? I know you. I _was_ you, and I know you won’t hold back if you need to, and you won’t hesitate. Go after him. Stop him.”

“Missy-”

“Please, Thete,” Missy breathes, her voice shaking as she looks up at him with an unabashed, pleading expression that’s full of utter desperation. The contrast to the brash, confident woman of moments before is heart-breaking. “Please go after him. Your TARDIS… it’s… I wouldn’t let him… I couldn’t let him take it… it’s… where we…”

Something about the helplessness of her plea seems to make up his mind for him, and the Previous Doctor nods tightly, first at her and then at the Doctor, and then turns, striding away in – the Doctor presumes – the direction of his TARDIS.

“It’s alright,” the Doctor hums quietly, although she’s no longer sure which of them she’s attempting to comfort. Missy burrows into her arms, burying her face in the Doctor’s neck and taking ragged, tremulous breaths as she clings to her. “It’s alright. He’s going to stop him.”

“He… Gallifrey…” Missy’s voice cracks, and suddenly the Doctor understands; suddenly she knows why the Time Lady looks so abjectly traumatised. Even after all they’d experienced there, it had still been their home; even after all the Time Lords had done to her in her previous regenerations, Missy had never held any anger towards the innocents of their race. Children. Infants. The Shobogans. She would never have harmed them; not like her future self had. Seeing the devastation that the Master had wrought, and knowing that he would have expected Missy to share in his glee… the Doctor’s hearts break for her oldest friend, and she feels a furious wave of anger towards the Master. To show someone on the brink of reformation such utter desolation… he must have known how much it would affect Missy. Must have known the harm it would do. “Gallifrey, he…”

“I know,” the Doctor soothes, stroking Missy’s hair, her voice breaking as she feels an involuntary, bitter, mean-spirited stab of relief that finally she has someone who understands her pain, before immediately experiencing a surge of guilt at the thought. “I know, I know, and I know it hurts, so I’m going to… I’m going to take those memories away; I’m going to make you forget. It’s alright, I promise. I’m going to make it better. You won’t remember. It won’t hurt.”

“Please… please don’t…”

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor says softly, then places her palm to Missy’s temple and sifting through her mind, taking the memories of Gallifrey into her own consciousness and seeing, despite her efforts to avoid doing so, a flash of a Time Tot screaming in agony as the street around it burns. The pain and agony that surround the image cause the Doctor something akin to physical pain; she remembers Missy’s agony when she’d lost her own daughter during the war, and the pain caused by seeing her future self murdering the children of their own race in such a callous way must have been heart-wrenching.

In her arms, Missy falls still as the Doctor removes the last traces of what she’s seen from her head, and then drops into a weighted sleep induced by the shock of having someone probe into her consciousness, the Doctor sighing guiltily as she looks down at her, smoothing her hair back off her face and finding her fingertips come away stained with the traces of the ashes of their planet.

“What am I going to do with you?” she wonders aloud, looking down at her oldest friend. “He could be… hours. Days. Weeks. Perhaps longer. He’s a slippery sort, your future self.”

There’s only one thing she supposes she can do, and so she hefts Missy up in her arms and starts the long, arduous trek back to Deck Three.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before, and Missy finds herself alone with a strange Doctor... one she has some questions for.

When Missy awakes the next morning, she’s momentarily confused. She’s in a bed she half-knows, although the sheets have changed from a deep, seductive crimson to a bright TARDIS blue, and beside her, still caught in a dream, is a blonde-haired Time Lady wearing a pink t-shirt with a rainbow emblazoned across the chest. Discombobulated and disoriented as she is, Missy has always been able to recognise the TARDIS, and she smiles warmly up at the ceiling in a greeting to the ship, before looking over the Time Lady asleep beside her and putting two and two together, an expression of fondness creeping over her face as she runs her gaze over the Doctor’s prone form and thinks about reaching over and pressing a kiss to her friend’s unprotesting forehead.

“Ah,” Missy says aloud as she sits up, and then winces sharply. Her head feels sore and her memories are jumbled, as though they’ve been rifled through, and there are wide, red-raw patches of skin around each wrist in the shape of the psychic cuffs that she remembers having clapped on her before leaving the TARDIS – not this TARDIS, but still, she shudders at the recollection; at how it had felt to have bonds on her wrists. After that… well, there had been a space station, and the Medusa Cascade, and… something bad. Something terrible, but she can’t remember more than that; can’t remember anything more than fear and uncertainty; she tries to probe her memories for understanding, then realises why her consciousness hurts. Someone has been inside her head and done some… well, some strategic rearranging. She looks over at the Time Lady asleep beside her with suspicion, wondering what exactly has been removed from her mind.

“Morning,” the figure beside her mumbles, reaching for her hand and interlacing their fingers. Missy wants to uphold her feelings of mistrust, but the touch is both intoxicating and familiar. She likes to think that the Doctor is keen for the physical intimacy, but she feels the brush of her friend’s consciousness against hers and knows she’s only checking her vitals. Still. A girl can pretend, and her cheeks flush at the feeling of the Doctor’s mind, skimming across hers. “Sleep alright? Head feel OK?”

“Why do my memories hurt?” Missy demands to know, stung by the allusion to whatever the Doctor has done, snatching her hand away and sitting up, attempting to tame her hair with her free hand as she does so. “What did you do? What did you steal?”

The Doctor flinches, struggling into a seated position and looking deeply, profoundly guilty in a way that alarms Missy profoundly, and she begins rifling through her memories, trying to work out what’s missing. Her family? No. Her history with the Doctor? No. Her past evil plans, categorised by planet, species and date? No.

The Doctor finally says hesitantly: “I didn’t take anything, I just… I had to do some… rearranging.”

“Why? Of what? And why am I here with you? Where’s _my_ Doctor?”

“Very telling,” the Doctor teases, earning a gentle nudge in the ribs as Missy rolls her eyes to acknowledge the tiny, not unwelcome dig. “I’m babysitting you. The things I took away from you were things you shouldn’t have known. You were at the Medusa Cascade with your Doctor, and I was there with… with another version of you. He showed you something he shouldn’t have, and it… it destroyed you. You were traumatised. I know you wouldn’t have retained the memories, converging timestreams and all, but the thought of you having to wait for them to decay… I couldn’t let you suffer that long.”

“Oh,” Missy says dully, wondering what could have so traumatised her that the Doctor had been moved to intervene. She’s committed genocide before, and the Doctor hadn’t been inside her head then. The way her oldest friend is looking at her, however, indicates that this is something on which she ought not probe. If the Doctor had seen fit to leave her with her the recollection of every conquest she had ever carried out and the pain she’d inflicted on countless planets and peoples, but removed all trace of whatever had occurred at the Cascade, she must have had good reason. “Well, I don’t need babysitting.”

“Well, clearly you do, because you collapsed in my arms last night at the Cascade.”

“I… did I?” Missy frowns, caught between embarrassment and triumph. She’s always aspired to do that, and the fact she can’t remember doing so is irksome. She wonders whether she looked attractive doing so; she really ought to try it again sometime. “Well, I must’ve swooned at the sight of you. Can I be blamed for that? You are rather pretty.”

The Doctor’s cheeks flush delicately. “Something like that, yeah.”

Missy nods, then asks bluntly: “Why are you in bed with me?”

“Didn’t trust you not to wander off and cause havoc on the ship,” the Doctor mumbles, dropping her gaze to the duvet. “This seemed the simplest solution to that. It was this or the psychic cuffs, but you were already burnt, and so was I. I didn’t fancy trying to put them back on; it seemed cruel.”

“Right,” Missy bites down on her lip, determined not to spoil the moment by arguing or pushing the Doctor too far with teasing words. “Of course.”

“That’s all!” the Doctor protests, shooting Missy a warning look that’s undermined by a discernible streak of fondness. “I didn’t want you freaking out or wandering off, and if I was here with you then I could keep an eye on you. I thought about sleeping in the chair but… it seemed uncomfortable, so this was the best solution. You cling in your sleep, by the way. I’d-”

She cuts herself off, biting down on her lip, but they both know what she was about to say: _I’d forgotten that._ Missy smiles softly, not wanting to admit aloud that the clinging is not entirely subconscious, and the Doctor is the only person she feels safe enough to hold onto with such ferocity. An anchorpoint; a weighting to the centre of her universe. A grounding; a reminder of all that they had once been and could still be again.

“Of course,” Missy nods, entirely unconvinced by the Doctor’s explanation, both of them pretending that she had not slipped up by alluding to their previous nocturnal intimacy. “So, how long is this babysitting likely to go on for?”

“Urm,” the Doctor chews her lip thoughtfully, then admits with the utmost reluctance: “An indeterminate amount of time. Sorry. Don’t know more than that. Until my past self comes to get you, but that could be… I don’t know. Weeks. Months.”

“Right,” Missy raises her eyebrows. “Good. So… girly sleepover, then?”

“Don’t get cocky,” the Doctor warns, but she’s smiling, and Missy has to admit…

As imprisonment goes, this could be far, far worse.


End file.
